by Gail Donovan
And Michael was on his side because they were friends now. Maybe even best friends.
“Listen,” whispered Josh. “There are tadpoles that could end up deformed if we don’t do something. I’ve got to get Gorfman back so I can show him to somebody who knows about all that parasite and pesticide stuff.”
“Somebody like who?” asked Payson.
“I’m working on it,” said Josh. “I heard about this biologist. She’s a teacher at a college and she’s way into frogs.”
Michael nodded. “Cool.”
“But first we’ve got to get Gorfman back,” said Josh. “So—are you guys up for helping me?”
“Of course we are,” said Charu. “But how are you going to show that you know the meaning of respect?”
“And responsibility,” added Michael, quickly scribbling something and then holding up his drawing for them to see. It was a frog with two heads. In a cartoon bubble, one head was saying, Respect. The other head was saying, Responsibility.
After Mrs. Gorman had confiscated the frog, she’d explained that she wouldn’t destroy his property. But she would keep it until he could show her that he could be responsible and respectful of school rules.
“I wonder where she’s keeping Gorfman,” said Michael.
Charu said, “She has to keep him cold, right?”
“She better be!” said Josh.
“So where is there a refrigerator?” she asked.
Josh and Payson exchanged a you-thinking-what-I’m-thinking? look and shouted in unison, “Teachers’ lounge!”
“Keep it down!” warned Mrs. B., training a severe gaze on them for a full minute before turning back to her work.
Charu whispered, “Stealing Gorfman from the teachers’ lounge is not going to show the principal that you know the meaning of respect.”
“I don’t care,” said Josh angrily. “I want my frog back!” But he knew they weren’t going anywhere with Mrs. B. in charge of command central.
Michael was scribbling. He showed them his picture: the two-headed Respect and Responsibility frog was now sitting on a lily pad. On another lily pad was Mrs. Sturdevant, and the words in her cartoon bubble said, SILENT LUNCH!
“Silent Lunch!” mimicked Payson.
“Stop joking around,” scolded Charu. “This is serious.”
Josh repeated Payson’s words. “Silent Lunch.” Something about Michael’s funny drawing was giving him a funny idea. “That’s it!” he said. “Silent Lunch!”
Charu sighed. “It’s your frog! Don’t you want to make a plan to get it back?”
“Silent Lunch!” he repeated in a low voice. “That is the plan. They’re always asking us to keep the noise down, right? So what could be more respectful than everyone being quiet? We’ll get all the kids to stop talking at the same time. It’ll be our very own Silent Lunch!”
Payson looked excited. Charu looked doubtful. Michael looked excited and doubtful. But when Josh asked, “You guys with me?” they all nodded.
“All right then,” said Josh in a satisfied whisper. “It’s the Get-Gorfman-Back Silent Lunch. Tomorrow at noon. Be there.”
Chapter 15
Plans B, C, D & E
Josh lay in bed, trying to think. Think, he commanded himself. How was he supposed to let the entire population of Hollison Elementary know about the Get-Gorfman-Back Silent Lunch between now and noon tomorrow? He knew Michael and Payson and Charu would try to spread the word during recess—he’d still be stuck in the office—but how many kids could they talk to? A kind-of-quiet lunch wasn’t the same thing as Silent Lunch. It would only work if everyone went along, and that would take a miracle.
He heard steps on the stairs and tapping on his bedroom door.
“Lights out,” said his mom, opening the door.
“Mom, what’s the definition of a miracle?”
She came and perched on the edge of his bed. “The definition of a miracle? You.”
“Mo-om,” he groaned. “That is so corny.”
“You didn’t say non-corny miracles,” she said. “And I mean it. Somebody once told me that having a baby was like getting to help make a miracle.”
“Who?” he asked.
“Your birth dad,” she said softly. “Jonathan. It was something he read somewhere.”
“So—Mom,” he started, then stopped. “What was he like?”
Josh’s mom sighed. “That’s an awfully big question. Is this one of those let’s-talk-instead-of-going-to-sleep conversations?”
“You never want to talk,” he complained.
“I do want to,” she said. “But not when it’s bedtime.” She stood and turned off the light. “Another time, I promise. Lights out, now. Go to sleep.”
Josh lay in the dark. Through his open bedroom window he could hear the peepers peeping. He could hear the sound of the television from downstairs, too, because the power was back on after the storm.
Wait a minute. Electric power meant he didn’t need a miracle. All he needed was ten minutes on the computer. He could print up a flyer that would explain everything, give copies to every kid on the bus, and ask them to pass out their copies to the kids in their classes.
It was brilliant. It was worth taking the risk that he’d be caught when he was still grounded from computer and it was lights out.
Josh sat up, pushed back the covers, and crept to his doorway, listening. He heard the low murmur of television voices. Coast clear. Quietly, he tiptoed down the hall to the computer room.
The screen was asleep—just like he was supposed to be—and Josh jiggled the mouse and opened a new document.
He knew Michael and Charu and Payson and the other fifth graders were on his side, but what could he say to make the rest of the school want to help him?
Maybe he could point out how unfair it was that the principal took his frog. Most kids were against unfairness. He decided to start with some generalities on the topic.
Do other kids in your family get more stuff than you? Do grown-ups ever take stuff away from you for a reason that isn’t your fault? Then they say that life isn’t fair! If you agree that it isn’t fair that life isn’t fair, please help me.
Josh hesitated. What should he say next? He could explain how he’d brought the dead frog to school because he couldn’t keep it in his fridge because the power was out . . . but that was getting way too complicated.
Time for a brain break. Josh switched over to Mail and heard the swoosh of a message coming in.
Dear Josh [the bio-grands always wrote just like it was a real, old-fashioned letter]:
I am sending you this note because you’re probably asleep by now, but this news is too exciting to wait. I left a message for Dr. Donatelli and she just called back. She would definitely like to see Gorfman as soon as possible. I gave her your phone number and she said she will call you tomorrow.
Love,
Matt
Lifting his arms in victory, Josh opened his mouth wide to let out a silent scream: Yes! Finally, somebody who knew something wanted to see Gorfman!
Except—duh—he couldn’t show Gorfman to Dr. Donatelli. He didn’t have Gorfman. Principal Gorman did.
For a second Josh sat in the glow from the screen, his head spinning. Pumped up. Bummed out. What next?
Fear next.
Josh heard the sound of silence—the television being turned off. Then steps, and doors opening and closing. His parents moving around downstairs. They were coming!
Heart thumping, Josh closed everything down, raced back to his room, and dove into bed. Plan B was a bust. Okay, Plan C: Get up early and finish his flyer in the morning. Tomorrow was Thursday, so his week of no computer would be up. No problem, right?
Problem.
Which became clear when Josh woke to his mom’s voice.
“Josh, this is the third time I’ve called you! Get out of bed!”
There was no time to write or print anything. No time to even think about it. In a hurry, Josh dressed, grabbed
his backpack and an apple to eat on the bus, and staggered into fifth grade after having only been up for about thirty minutes. So he was still half asleep when Ms. O’Reilly said, “Does anybody know where Mariah is? It’s her turn to do morning announcements.”
Lisbet answered, “She’s coming late today. She had a doctor’s appointment or something.”
Josh’s sleepy brain suddenly sprang wide awake. He had just seen Plan D. The most unbelievably perfect opportunity he would ever have to tell two hundred kids about the Get-Gorfman-Back Silent Lunch. Should he try it?
“Michael!” he said. “Payson! Charu!” He made get-over-here circles with his hand.
Michael, Payson, and Charu gathered near Josh by the terrarium.
“Listen,” he said. “We have ten seconds to ask everyone not to raise their hand when Ms. O’Reilly asks for volunteers.”
“How come?” asked Payson.
“Because she hates me, right? And she won’t pick me unless nobody else volunteers. And I have a special announcement to make . . .” He trailed off. He didn’t want to jinx it by saying his idea out loud.
“The lunch?” gasped Charu.
Josh nodded. “Will you guys help?”
Michael’s face lit up as he understood the idea. “Sure. But will you wish me Happy Birthday?”
“It’s your birthday?” asked Payson.
“No,” said Michael. “But what are they gonna do, take away his recess?”
“Stop joking around,” said Charu impatiently. “We’ve got to hurry!”
They spread out around the classroom. Kids were straggling in from the playground, dumping backpacks on the floor, hanging up jackets, getting settled. It was the perfect noisy, chaotic moment to make Josh’s request. He saw Payson talking to the two Bens, Charu talking to Kendra and Lisbet, and Michael talking to some other kids.
“All right,” said Ms. O’Reilly. “I need a volunteer. Who wants to run to the office and do the morning announcements?”
Josh raised his hand.
Nobody else raised theirs.
Ms. O’Reilly looked around the fifth-grade classroom.
Josh tried to look innocent, which wasn’t easy.
“Well,” said Ms. O’Reilly, putting on her glasses with their sea-glass chain and peering at Josh. “Thank you, Josh. You can go right now.”
Josh slipped out of fifth grade, jumped down the stairs two at a time—against the rules, but who cared compared to what he was about to do?—and sprinted to the office.
“Hi,” he said to Mrs. B. His heart was pounding. Did he look guilty in advance? “I’m here to do the announcements?”
Mrs. B. pointed to the chair he should sit in, next to the intercom system, and handed him the sheet of paper with the announcements printed on it: Today was Thursday, June 8, Happy Birthday to Ben Thibodeau and Graciella Norton, hot lunch was pizza, and students should please check the lost and found box, which was full, to see if anything of theirs was in there.
Josh sat, waiting for the moment when Mrs. B. would flick on the intercom and give him the go-ahead nod. Command central was busy at this time of day. The band instructor came in to check on the bus for the field trip to a concert next week (which made Josh remember that his permission slip was in the bottom of his backpack, unsigned). The gym teacher stepped in, wearing her trademark sweat-suit and a whistle around her neck, and asked if she could have a word with Mrs. Gorman.
“She’s in a district meeting at Town Hall,” said the secretary. “She won’t be in until later.”
Think! Josh told himself. Focus! What was he going to say?
He tried to think about what he had started to write last night, about how life wasn’t fair. He couldn’t think.
He tried to figure out what he could say to convince everybody that they should be quiet to help him get Gorfman back. He couldn’t figure it out.
Instead of thinking or figuring, Josh was remembering. He remembered sitting next to Matt and Lacey on Sunday. He remembered the prayers for the dead people. That’s what he wanted the Silent Lunch to be like. He wanted it to be a moment of silence for Gorfman.
So now what? Time for Plan—who knew? Josh had lost track of how many plans he’d gone through. There was no more time to plan, anyway, because Mrs. B. put a hand on his shoulder.
“Ready?” asked the secretary.
Nodding, he pulled the microphone toward him. He held the piece of paper in his hand, as if he was really going to read from it. His heart was pounding. He was just going to have to wing it, like when he said grace at supper. No problem, right? Winging it was his specialty.
The secretary turned the switch.
“Good morning and welcome to Hollison Elementary,” he began. That was the usual opener. Then your name.
“I’m Josh Hewitt,” he said. Still on script.
Josh paused and took a deep breath, like he would if he was going to try and touch the bottom of the pool at the deep end. This was it.
“And I want to say I’m sorry about the Silent Lunches we had this week. They were my fault. I found this frog with five legs, and I felt really sorry for him. And he died, and I felt really bad, and I ended up bringing the frog to the cafeteria, which I shouldn’t’ve done. So I’m sorry.”
Mrs. B. and the band instructor and the gym teacher were all staring at Josh with stunned looks on their faces. Luckily for Josh, they seemed to be frozen. Nobody moved or said anything. Nobody tried to stop him, so he hurried on.
“Anyway,” said Josh. “Some kids and I are going to have a moment of silence for my frog at lunch today. And if anybody wants to be quiet with us, that would be great. So thanks a lot if you feel like it. And whether you feel like it not, I’m still really sorry.”
Josh put down the microphone, and since Mrs. B. still seemed to be frozen, he turned off the intercom switch, too. He looked at the secretary, wondering what his punishment was going to be, but she just looked right back at him. Her eyes were shining.
“That was”—she paused—“that was really beautiful, Josh.”
Chapter 16
Frogly Awesome
Josh spent the next three hours in a daze, waiting for the hammer to come down.
First the secretary didn’t scold him. She just gave him a big, squishy hug and sent him back to his classroom.
Then Ms. O’Reilly didn’t yell at him. She told him to take a seat for Silent Reading. What was going on? Could Ms. O’Reilly think that he’d asked—and been given—permission to make up his own announcement?
As Josh walked to his desk, he felt the eyes of the whole class following him. And he felt it: they were with him. They would go along with the moment of silence for Gorfman.
Then came Band. Band was optional for fourth and fifth graders. While kids were getting out their instruments, Josh realized that the fifth-grade clarinets were having whispered conversations with the fourth-grade clarinets. Fifth-grade flutes were talking to fourth-grade flutes. And the fifth-grade trumpets were working on the fourth-grade trumpets.
By the end of the period, the fourth-grade band kids were in. And since this year the school was experimenting with multiage classes, soon those kids could spread the word not only to the rest of the fourth grade but to the entire third grade, too.
After band, Ms. O’Reilly announced that it was time for kindergarten buddies. Josh was pretty sure that in addition to having a picture book read to them, every kindergartner was personally asked to go along with the moment of silence for Gorfman.
Trooping back from the kindergarten room, Josh’s class passed Cady’s second-grade class marching single file to Art. Cady gave him a thumbs-up. Did that mean . . . yes! More second graders were giving him the thumbs-up! Cady must have talked to them.
The daze was getting even dazier. Band kids, kindergarten buddies, Cady’s class . . . were they all going to join in a moment of silence during lunch?
Time for recess. Josh grabbed his lunch—he’d brought a sandwich in a brown paper bag,
because the principal still had his lunchbox with Gorfman in it—and headed down to the office.
Mrs. B. gave him the old you-sit-there nod. So Josh sat.
Still no hammer.
Half an hour to go. Josh was having trouble sitting still. Half of him was scared the Silent Lunch wouldn’t happen. Half was sure it would. Half was just curious.
Whoa—too many halves. But that’s how he felt. Like there was too much inside him. He couldn’t keep quiet any longer.
“Mrs. B!” he blurted. “How’s your dog?”
Mrs. B. smiled and shook her head. “Darlin’,” she said. “You know I can’t be chatting with you. Why don’t you pick a book and settle down?”
Josh took a book from the pile without looking at what it was. There was no way he could concentrate on reading.
Fifteen minutes to go. He wondered if Principal Gorman was back yet from her meeting. If she was, did she know?
Luckily, Josh didn’t have to wait long for the answer to that question. The principal walked in with her coat on.
“Hello, Joshua,” she said.
Josh managed to squeak, “Hi!”
Mrs. B. handed the principal her phone messages on little slips of pink paper, and the principal disappeared inside her office.
She didn’t know! And Mrs. B. hadn’t told! Josh wished he could jump up and give Mrs. B. another squishy hug, but he stopped himself. He tapped his feet and squirmed in the tiny chair.
Ten minutes to go.
Five minutes.
Four.
Three, two, one.
Twelve o’clock. Josh got up and walked out of the office and toward the cafeteria.
He passed the kindergartners’ tulips and daffodils and “things that come up in the spring!” pictures that had been up ever since April.
He passed the nurse’s office with the little cot.
He passed the gym teacher’s closet where she kept all the jump ropes and soccer balls.
Moving more and more slowly down the long hallway, Josh was having the weirdest feeling. It felt like he was underwater. The way it was hard to move, and you had to sort of push your limbs through the water. And the way when you dove under, suddenly all the above-water noises disappeared and it was totally quiet.
